Exclusive Evil - Reject Enlightenment, Embrace Wytch Hunting

For the realest of real men.

Have you been good? Me neither. You get a bonus article anyway. Satire’s a Monday essential.

If you dig it, spread the wealth. If you don’t, spread the disease.

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Reject Enlightenment, Embrace Wytch Hunting

By Dennard Dayle

Since the rise of print and decline of plague, men have grown weak. They settle feuds with gunpowder, letting decorative swords rust. They separate wells and latrines like savages, wasting urine’s vital energies. And they let wytches walk in their midst, untested and unburned. Now our fathers’ stockades and thumbscrews collect dust. While iron maidens—the only maidens you can trust—sit empty.

Reading this makes you part of the problem. Did your father read? Or did he put widows to the torch? A real man would have already named his third son and cloistered his fourth daughter. But you spent precious years on pamphlets. Now you can’t control your woman, or tell if she cavorts with the devil.

She does.

Because you tolerate it. Scholars (glorified eunuchs), deists (pagans in wigs), and disciples of a certain faith (a subject for another pamphlet) call it enlightenment. I see a dark age. One where wytches control the home, the trades, and even your precious letters. But they won’t turn you into a worm: you already are one.

Petty wars–monarchists and republicans, Protestants and Catholics, pagans and humans—mean nothing. We live in a wytchocracy. Devil-damsels curse masculine minds and loins, leaving powderless weaklings in loose pants. Today’s men can barely blend their own foundation, let alone own a partner. No wonder the salons and coffeehouses are covens in all but name. No wonder unmarried queens sit without assassination. Men defeated by powder cannot face the devil or his properly painted harem.

Worse yet, Satan-strumpets stole the right to defend yourself. The effete ritual of dueling is a shallow replacement for the manly art of killing. One that just happens to restrict proper wytch-hunting. Isn’t it convenient that both sides must be armed, but the rules leave out magick? The game’s artfully rigged in Belial-brides’ favor.

And they reject the love of good men.

I know you’re lonely. It’s not only your pathetic, childlike weakness. Satan and syphilis claim good women before you can. Wytchcraft sparks contempt for the shape of your chin, the size of your belly, and the weight of your loins. I know, because I was once like you. Poor. Adrift. Unarmed. Then I discovered the joy of the branding iron.

Like anything worthwhile, it was hard at first. The wytch collars were heavy, the Malleus Maleficarum was complicated, and the wytches’ children were rarely thankful. Those challenges built my physical, mental, and emotional strength. Now I have a toned body, crackling monster-hunting wit, and the mental steel to torture anyone, anywhere. I’m writing this and interrogating a Lucifer-lass at the same time. She hasn’t broken yet, but this job also sharpens creativity.

Thus, collecting confessions serves more than the community. The inquisitor rediscovers his manly essence. Every Pazuzu-princess I exposed sharpened me into the weapon I am today. A self-made man of God. Unbreakable, unfoolable, and unrejectable.

Remember your last rejection? When someone weighed your soul, and then said you didn’t have enough land? Or you wore the wrong wig? Or she was already married? That was a wytch. Weigh her soul, and then send it back to hell. Her children will understand in time, provided they aren’t wytches as well.

Needless to say, your relations with godly women will improve. Wytch hunters have inimitable style, uncorrupted by flightier tastes. Capes are in today, and will remain in until the rapture. But our charm goes beyond aesthetics. Falsely accused women (rare as they are) often fall in love with hunters. These romances overlap oddly closely with their trials, but such are the whims of heaven. Be ready to meet your first few wives during your travels.

More importantly, you’ll find friendship. Steel sharpens steel, and chasing heiresses through the forest will inevitably expose you to other hunters. Embrace that brotherhood. It’s how a lonely trial becomes an inquisition without borders. I met my best friend and erstwhile editor during the interrogation of a hedge doctor. I couldn’t lift the boulder on my own, but four hands made light labor.

Your first few drownings will seem cruel, but there’s nothing else to be done for Mammon-maidens. They’re wed to dark magic, and divorce is an even graver sin than wytchcraft. But you can stop the rot’s spread. Trade the quill for the rack, and you’ll never be alone again.

Sincerely,

H. Kramer III

Christian Soldier and Author of Influence

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As always, thanks for reading. The super life-changing paperback of my book Everything Abridged comes out April 11th, and I get the feeling you’d like it.